Do You Hoover or Vacuum?

Do you call it a Hoover or a vacuum? In these parts, the domestic appliance that sucks up those cake crumbs from the carpet is generally referred to as the Hoover. For this piece, however, I shall ditch the eponym and use vacuum.

These days many people own fancy cordless versions of that household appliance, some of which boast inventive suction methods and ingenious dirt storage and ejection systems. Not so at Chez Joseph. I’m still sucking it old school with a monstrosity (pictured) that weighs about the same as a SMART car, and belts out a similar level of decibels as the start of an F1 grand prix.

The cordless contingent

TV ads for cordless vacuums demonstrate how liberating the modern machine is compared to its tied-to-the-wall predecessor. They show the cord stretched to its limit at the plug socket, the user struggling with the appliance while doing the staircase, and the dirt being handled on emptying. To the cordless contingent, such ads may be cause for mocking laughter at how we had to do it back in the day. To me, they serve as tutorials.

One of the most irksome characters I come across when vacuuming with my old model, and I’d like to know if more modern vacuums have overcome this problem, is the stubborn cotton thread that has almost woven itself into the pile of the carpet. Whence these pesky two-inch long strands come I know not, but there’s one in attendance almost every time I vacuum. Their purpose appears to be to taunt me, all the while pulling more shapes than an inebriated uncle at a wedding when Blue Monday comes on.

I go over the thread with the head of the vacuum, and when I pull back, the blighter is still there, but it has morphed into a new form. I run over it a second time, and it stays put but creates another new squiggle. After a third going over, I perceive it to be giving me the finger. It’s proper Wyle. E Coyote versus Roadrunner stuff, which goes on until my tolerance level is breached after about eight attempts to get the wretched thing into the mouth of the vacuum. When the dam bursts, I pluck the thread out by hand with all the gusto of Cornwall going at Gloucester’s eyeball and toss it into the bin.

Foreign body

Job done, I unplug the vacuum, step on the cord return pedal, and then banish the appliance to its home in the cupboard on the landing. By way of reward for my efforts, I go to make a cup of tea, giving my handiwork the once-over on the way. In so doing, my irritation of earlier is rekindled when I clap my eyes upon a light-colored foreign body right in the centre of the carpet, which stands out like a yacht on a calm sea. I step in to remove it and, on closer inspection, discover that the intruder is a grain of rice.

On my way to put the grain into the waste bin alongside Fred the Thread, I catch a glimpse of another foreign body in my wake. This time it’s what I assume to be a dried-out pea from a Pot Noodle. I’m not kidding, vacuuming my living room is a task akin to painting the Forth Bridge; As soon as I’ve finished, it’s time to start all over again.

My guess is that I possess a sort of magnetic attraction to tiny items of detritus, which fall from my person as I move about because these bits seem to appear from nowhere. It’s like I’m an adult version of Pig-Pen from the Peanuts comic strip, and my work is never done.

We all sometimes dream about what we might do if we were to come into a fortune. I’d forego the Caribbean cruise and the big car in favour of something more domestic. I’d buy a fleet of those robotic vacuum cleaners that move about automatically. I’d have three of them patrolling the living room 24/7, keeping my carpet pristine and bit-free at all times.

You can buy peace of mind, provided you don’t lose it on the way.